


Meet the Smileys

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just doesn't understand. Occasionally, however, he does have good suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet the Smileys

John sent him to bed – frog marched him into the room, even – and forced him to lie down.

"I don't care what you think, three patches is not good," he'd barked, tearing off the most recently applied one. "And until you tell me just _what_ was in that paint tin you inhaled the contents of, you are not going anywhere."

"Head hurts," Sherlock protested, rolling over onto his stomach as John tugged off his shoes and socks.

"Tough. Titty. Three patches, whatever it was in that tin, and four days without sleep is doing you serious harm."

Sherlock managed a defiant gesture from somewhere beneath the pillows and duvet. Was John trying to smother him?

Poor John; he never did understand that Sherlock's brain, the words, the images, wouldn't let him sleep: kaleidoscoping over and over and over.

And sometimes – fuck, all the time – patches and ninety-six sleepless hours was the only way those images fell into place.

"I should give you a sedative."

"Fuck off." It came out "Fnck omf".

John paused.

 _Stop, breathe, sigh, floorboard creak (twenty-seventh, counting from the right)._

"Fine."

Sherlock waited.

 _Six steps out of the room. Door creak and click. Hot, too hot._

Beneath the covers, his hands shucked off his trousers, pants, and shirt.

 _Images cascaded: blood beneath the fingernails. Paint spatters on the back of the legs._

Sherlock flipped onto his back, tangling his legs in the duvet.

 _Eighteen cracks in the plaster ceiling. Fifty-six whorls in the plaster medallion around the light fixture. Paint. Paint. Paint. Paint. Splatter._

Shoving the duvet to one side, he lurched from the bed. Not far enough. The duvet grabbed him, and he crashed to the ground.

 _Oh, hello, there's the syringe. What was in there? Oh, yes, botulinum toxin from earlier this year. Withholding evidence, Lestrade would complain._

Bugger him. More thrashing freed him of the duvet.

 _Paint. Paint. Splatter. Where's the spray can?_

He staggered to the sitting room.

 _Yellow. Smiley. Looking at him. Bullet between the eyes. Bang. Boom._

"You're lonely, aren't you?"

The Smiley did not reply.

"Loneliness is ugh…. Small people. Can't entertain themselves. Human company. Boring most of the time. Dull."

The Smiley smiled. It was what it was best at, even with bullet wounds.

"Friends, enemies. John says people don't have archenemies. People have friends."

The Smiley seemed to agree.

"Do you have archenemies? I think the victim did. Somebody who knew he painted. Splatter, spatter."

A steady hand after ninety-six consecutive hours without sleep – Sherlock was impressed.

"There. Friend. Enemy. But the victim didn't use spray paint."

The two Smileys smiled at him.

"Now that's an addition to the scenery.

"Spatter. Scenery. Painting. Pointillism. JOHN!"

Sherlock lurched for the stairwell and caught his foot on the coffee table, inconveniently moved because John had complained he was barking his shins on it. The table collapsed under his weight, and Sherlock's head hit the floor.

Blissful silence. Peace.

Until John started prodding at him, shining a pen light in his eyes and shouting about "concussion."

 _Bugger that. He **knew**._

"Bugger that," he shouted and flinched as the sound ricocheted around his head. "The victim was a scenic designer – he was killed, oh, bugger this for a lark!"

"Sherlock…"

Ignoring the nausea and vertigo, he staggered for his coat, conveniently draped over the arm of the sofa. He wrapped the scarf and tied it.

"Sherlock…"

"Right. John. I'm off! Get Lestrade, tell him I've done his job for him _again_!"

"SHERLOCK!"

He spun, staggered and grabbed the doorframe.

"What."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Even in this state – and Sherlock was willing to concede the concussion – he could tell John was upset about something.

"First off," John said, "it's 3 am. Secondly, unless you want me to have Lestrade arrest you for indecent exposure, I would suggest you find some clothing _other_ than your coat and scarf, and thirdly, Sherlock, what in fuck are you on about?"

Sherlock froze. He had wondered why it was a bit nippy around the dangly bits.

John drew him by the arm to his bedroom.

"I can't let you sleep now, not with your head, but we going to sit quietly and drink tea, and you are going to explain to me just what possessed you to make another smiley face on the wall and how that relates to the current case."

Sherlock allowed himself to be tugged to his room.

"His name is George. Hers is Ann," was his only reply, as the Smileys winked at him from the wallpaper.

"Oh, bugger, you're not going to shoot the other one, are you?" John whinged.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Special thanks to the village that it takes for me to write fanfic: annietalbot and bluestocking79. Bonus points go to those who recognize where the Smileys got their names.


End file.
